


Crooked

by fairest



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Possessive Behavior, Slow Build, Unbeta'd, bratva!Oliver, but not the Arrow we all love, mentions of sara lance - Freeform, there's still an Arrow, this is gonna be a long one guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-28 18:50:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2743352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairest/pseuds/fairest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver Queen is thought to have died when his family's yacht went down five years ago.</p><p>Now, a changed Oliver must return to Starling to complete a mission.</p><p>A mission to kill, and then save, Felicity Smoak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. tonight i'll be crooked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last thing I need is a new fic, but w/e. Bratva!Oliver fics are my eternal love, and there needs to be more long epics. 
> 
> Not sure how long this one is going to be, but it's going to be long, so buckle up kiddies. There will also most likely be smut in a much later chapter, at which point the rating will go up.
> 
> This chapter is mostly just setting up the story, so it's kind of jumpy. I don't intend for the rest of the story to be that way. 
> 
> As always, more notes at the bottom! :)

Felicity Smoak stares down at the gibberish currently replacing every email in her inbox. She had logged in to respond to an email from her boss and instead every single email had been replaced by the same kind of seemingly gibberish code from the same unknown email address. Which, considering this was her work email and not personal address, meant that whoever had sent her the code had been able to hack into the company mainframe.

Even Felicity, with her not inconsiderable know-how, wasn't sure what the code was for. That didn't mean, of course, that she wasn't intending on finding out.

Cracking her knuckles, she gets to work. “Prepare yourself, whoever you are,” she mutters to herself, “you haven't met the likes of Felicity Meghan Smoak.”

 

* * *

 

The arrow finds its way through the man's skull.

Oliver watches through the scope as the arrow exits through the back of the man's skull and lodges in the wall behind him before anyone seated at the tablet can even begin to react. Oliver is moving before his now deceased mark slumps forwards, dissembling his bow and stowing it in his briefcase. He shrugs off his leather jacket and shoves it into a bag, leaving a plain shirt and jeans on underneath. A baseball cap and sunglasses complete his thoroughly nondescript outfit.

As an _avortiyet_ in the Bratva, it isn't normally in his job description to carry out hits (and he would have preferred to send Barry, who did this with an almost terrifying level of glee), but whoever had originally ordered the hit had specifically requested Oliver. Luckily, his skills haven't exactly waned since his promotion.

He heads down the rear staircase and pulls out a sleek, completely off the grid phone and dials one of only two numbers saved in the phone.

_ "Rabota zavershena _ ,” he says crisply into the answering silence.  _ The job is complete. _

“ _Ochen' khorosho_ ,” a deep voice replies a moment later before a quiet click signals the end of their brief conversation. _Very good._

Oliver pockets the phone just as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. Having disabled the emergency alarm beforehand, it's no problem to open the door and step out. He melds easily with the bustling crowd just outside the door, becoming just another anonymous face in the crowds. 

 

* * *

 

“We have a problem,” Anatoli's thickly accented voice tells him conversationally over their weekly meal. Anatoli is one of the few people Oliver would consider a genuine friend, and he remains eternally grateful to the man who had managed to get them both off of that hellish island.

“Oh?” Oliver looks up from his meal of spaghetti. He had never quite been able to stomach Russian dishes such as the plate of _selyodka pod shuboi_ currently half ingested on Anatoli's plate.

“ _Da_ ,” Anatoli nods. “Fifty two million rubles have gone missing from the Bratva's funds.”

“Missing?” Oliver echoes. “How?”

Anatoli slides a glossy photo across the table to him. “This woman managed to somehow gain access to our accounts last night and transfer the money out.”

Ray would not be happy to hear that. Intrigued, Oliver picks up the photo. The woman shown looks as far away from an elite hacker as was humanly possible. With blonde hair and bright lipstick and an even brighter dress, she looked more like a Disney princess reject. Looks were deceiving, however. “Are we sure?” He asks, almost unnecessarily. He knows how thorough the Bratva are when tracking down someone who had wronged them. Just as he knows what would happen if it were true.

Anatoli nods. “ _ Da.  _ She left her, how do you put it, digital fingerprints all over it. Find her, force her to give the money back, and then kill her. Make a statement out of it.”

Oliver slides the photo off the table and into his pocket and nods. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing Oliver does after bidding Anatoli farewell is call Ray and inform him about the breech in the other man's supposedly impenetrable security. As he had suspected, the other man is not happy about the breech, swearing that he would track down the whereabouts of the woman and improve on their security immediately. As the  _ krysha, _ enforcer, of Oliver's brigade, Ray took his role very seriously, whether it was in person or through technology.

The second thing he does is call up all of the information that he can finds on this woman (Felicity Smoak, according to the name attached to the photo). As he had expected, the woman's bright exterior was at odds with her intelligence. This woman had graduated from MIT scarcely five years ago at the top of her class and was currently employed at – Oliver winces – Merlyn Industries. Fantastic. Only daughter to a single mother out of Las Vegas, father left when she was young. Allergic to nuts. There is a standing restraining order against a former classmate who was accused to stalking her.

Oliver spends the next several hours combing through every aspect of this woman's life. He sees nothing that leads him to suspect that she would suddenly decide to steal a million dollar from the Russian mob. The Bratva's spies and their resources are impeccable, however, and she certainly has the know how.

The sun has set by the time he decides he knows enough about the woman/ Oliver rubs at his eyes as he finally looks looks away from the computer screen and thinks on the best way to handle getting the money back. Considering where this Felicity Smoak lives, he is going to have to tread lightly. If he's too obvious, there would be headlines screaming the miraculous return of Starling's favorite playboy the very next day. He glances over in the direction of his bedroom, considering.

Would he be recognized? His gaze slides to a mirror. A man with flinty blue eyes and a hardened expression looks back. No, he decides, he wouldn't be recognized. No one would immediately think the battle-scarred man in the mirror was the same man infamous for peeing on a cop car with the cop still inside.

His phone ringing distracts him from his thoughts and he pulls out a different phone, this one a personal phone as opposed to a work phone. It's Ray, presumably calling him with an update on the woman.

“Oliver,” Ray says in lieu of a greeting,” I think I'm in love.”

Oliver cocks an eyebrow, amused despite himself. “What?”

“This woman, this Felicity Smoak, is my soulmate,” Ray tells him. “Are you sure she has to die?”

“Yes,” Oliver tells him. “What have you found out?”

There is the faint sounds of keys clicking. “Probably not much more than you did. She works at the Merlyn Industries branch in Starling and is head of their IT department. No boyfriend or significant other. Loves coffee, by the looks of these receipts, and shoes. Also comedy movies and Italian food. Long walks on the beach-”

“Is this a debriefing or her dating profile?” Oliver cuts him off.

There's the briefest pause. “Why not both?”

 

* * *

 

He ultimately decides that subtlety is the best way to go and he packs appropriately. He chooses nondescript shirts and jeans for the majority of his wardrobe. The ever present leather jacket gets tucked carefully inside lastly, placed gently on top of his other clothes.

Diggle was less than pleased about Oliver's order for him to remain behind and made it clear in every way he could, from the seemingly permanent frown to the short answers. That didn't stop the man from stubbornly insisting that he be the one to drive Oliver to the airport. Due to the extensive reach of the Bratva, Oliver wouldn't have any problems smuggling his weapons through customs, and as a result there were more bags than there were clothes.

Oliver claps the bigger man on the shoulder as he slides into the back of the car. “I'll be fine, Digg. You won't even notice I'm gone.”

His  _ byki, _ bodyguard, gives him a dry look before closing the door. “That remains to be seen. Nothing ever goes to plan with you, Oliver.”

“That's an exaggeration,” Oliver protests. “Most of the plans work out.”

Diggle shakes his head. “I don't like this, Oliver. I've got a bad feeling about this.”

“You always have bad feelings.” It was true. Diggle was one of the most paranoid men Oliver had ever met. Including himself. 

 

* * *

 

It's early morning when Oliver's plane lands in Starling, and while he is aware that jet lag will hit him with a vengeance later on, he will be able to cope until he manages to get the first part of his plan completed. He drops his stuff off at one of the Bratva's safe houses that he would be temporarily claiming as his own and takes advantage of the detailed schedule of the target that Ray had provided him with before he left.

According to the schedule, his target buys a large vanilla bean latte with extra cream and sugar at the same place every day before heading off to work.

He intends to intersect with her there.

The woman's preferred place is not far from where the safe house is located and and he decides to walk there. A small part of him is eager to see what had become of the city he'd grown up in, even if he cannot let anyone know he is still alive.

The coffee shop is busy when he arrives and every single one of his finely-tuned senses immediately snaps into high gear. It would be entirely too easy for someone to slide a knife between his ribs in a place as crowded as this and his instincts are screaming at him to leave before exactly that happens.

Oliver grits his teeth against the prickling sensation along the back of his neck and forces a smile to the harried-looking girl behind the counter. The smile feels rusty and uncomfortable on his lips but the girl doesn't seem to notice, looking positively dumbstruck by his very appearance. Once upon a time, he would have undoubtedly jumped at the opportunity and began some not-so-harmless flirting. Instead, he merely places his order with barely a greeting.

The prickling sensation grow worse and he knows his target has just entered.

He accepts the iced coffee (he wants to kill her, that doesn't mean he has to give her severe burns) from the barista with another rusty smile, all the while very much aware of the fact that the target is moving to his present location, and he is sure to time it perfectly.

He turns around, iced coffee in hand, just as she approaches and crashes into her, his shoulder knocks into her, knocking the files currently clutched in her hands to the ground. The coffee he'd bought falls out of his hand and splashes over the pastel-bright dress, staining the fabric and the trim legs underneath.

He immediately slides into character. “I'm so sorry!”

 

* * *

 

Felicity can't help but stare mournfully down at her now ruined dress. She's almost positive that it's beyond repair and it makes her want to cry. She's so distraught over the potential loss of her favorite dress that she almost forgets about the man who ran into her.

'Almost' being the keyword.

She's pretty sure everybody in the coffee shop is aware of the guy who bumped (or rather, rammed) into her. Despite his easygoing smile and carefree clothes, there's still an undercurrent of danger exuding off of him in waves, enough to put her on edge and want to back away. He's clearly in shape, judging by the definition she can see in his arms and shoulders. Perhaps he's a soldier back from a tour? It would definitely explain the muted edge of lethality clinging to him like an unseen cloak.

After a moment of staring blankly at the man, she suddenly remembers the stack of manila folders that she needs for work and completely foregoing the man's apology, she drops to her knees to save them. The man's coffee has fortunately to only have gotten to a few of papers, ones that she should be able to make new copies of with little difficulty. The man drops to his knees only moments after she does, and oh god, she can see the inseam of his jeans straining around his thigh muscles. She hopes she isn't drooling.

The man looks endearingly baffled. “What?”

Felicity flushes under his intense stare. She said that out loud.

The man continues to stare at her, holding out a few pieces of slightly soggy paper. She hurries to take them, her cheeks growing brighter the whole time, already babbling apologies. “I'm so sorry! Sometimes my mouth gets away from me and I say stuff I don't mean. Not that I don't mean it! Because your thighs are something to be admired and are bigger than my head which is really  _ really  _ impressive and oh god it's not stopping. I'm shutting up in three...two...one.”

By the end of her word vomit, the man doesn't have the expected expression of irritation or exasperation that she's used to from people forced to listen to her babble. He instead looks bewildered and amused, as if she is the funniest thing he's seen in a long time and isn't sure how to respond.

Felicity hurriedly shuffles the papers together into some semblance of neatness before she spontaneously combust from the humiliation. “I'm gonna go before I put my foot in my mouth even more and we can just forget this ever happened, okay? Okay.”

A hand snakes around her arm before she can flee. She can feel the calluses ground deep into the man's hands, which only adds weight to her suspicion about him being a soldier. “Wait, what about your dress?” The man asks, still clearly amused.

She becomes instantly aware of the increasingly cold coffee soaking through her dress and making her thighs sticky. She waves a hand dismissively. “It's a lost cause,” she tells him. “I have a backup in my office at work, anyways.”

He looks doubtful. “Are you sure?”

She nods vigorously enough that she can feel her ponytail bouncing behind her. “Don't worry about it,” she assures him. “It was an accident.”

“At least let me buy your drink,” he offers. “It's the only thing I can do.”

Felicity thinks for only a moment before agreeing. The man in front of her seems almost completely earnest and she had come in here for her normal cup of joe. “Okay,” she agrees with a smile. She's awarded by a slight quirk of his lips in an almost-smile. “I didn't properly introduce myself. I'm Felicity Smoak.” She shoves out a hand to shake.

His larger, callused hand surrounds hers and gives her a tentatively gentle squeeze, as if he is holding back his strength. “Slade Wilson.”

 

* * *

 

Felicity Smoak is not what he had expected.

Nor had the day gone according to plan. In particular, the meeting with the target. The more he got to know the woman, the less certain he was that she was the thief. Oliver had dealt with many kinds of people over the years, the majority of them shady or outright illegal, and he knew what to expect for the most part.

Felicity Smoak did not match up with what he knew.

Telling himself that there was nothing wrong with being overly thorough, Oliver reaches for his personal phone and dials Ray's number.

The _krysha_ sounds half asleep when he answer the phone. With a brief stab of remorse, Oliver remembers that it's just after three in the morning where he is. “What's up, Oliver?” Ray asks around a jaw cracking yawn.

“Can you do me a favor and double check our information on the woman who stole the money?” Oliver goes ahead and gets straight to the point.

Ray sounds noticeably more awake now. “ Sure, no problem. Everything going all right?”

“Fine,” the brigadier says shortly. “I'm just having doubts about the actual culprit behind this.”

“Well, hey, nobody's perfect,” Ray says loftily. “Except me, of course.” There's several moments to where all Oliver hears is the sound of keyboard keys clicking and clacking. “ Looks like everything is legit. Sorry, man. Looks like your girl Friday really did it.”

He shouldn't be as surprised as he is. Oliver lets out an uncharacteristic sigh. “All right, thanks, Ray.”

“Anytime, man,” Ray says easily before Oliver disconnects the call.

Oliver tosses the phone on the nearby table carelessly and gets to his feet. Now that he had gotten a closer look at his target and dismissed his uncertainties, he can proceed with the next part of his plan. Namely, eliminating the target Felicity Smoak.

He knows that it will need to be publicized and clear to remind their enemies of the Bratva's might and after only a moment's hesitation, he goes to pull out Shado's (and now his) jacket. The jacket is mostly a reminder from before he was promoted to  _avortiyet_ but it is still trotted out for the rare occasion that it's necessary to serve as a reminder openly. After all, the jacket is almost as famous as Floyd Lawton's use of curare.

The jacket still fits like a glove even after all this time. He assembles his bow and stocks his quiver with arrows. Dark greasepaint to disguise his face completes the outfit.

 

* * *

 

It's necessary to take the long way towards where the target's apartment is. The long way consists of him springing through the Glades and undoubtedly letting their enemies catching a glimpse of the sleek green figure darting over the rooftops. While he would have preferred to do this slowly and in stages over several days, it was a necessity to do this quickly and brutally to ensure that their enemies didn't begin to think them weak and make a move.

It's only after he's certain that he's been seen enough to make it clear that the Bratva's emerald archer was in town that he decides to move towards Felicity's apartment. While he is largely impatient to end this and return home, a small part of him is almost regretful at what he must do. Regret isn't a feeling he experienced all that often and it leaves him unsure on how to handle it.

He crashes through the window with the ease of long practice and in only fluid motion, he rocks to his feet and notches an arrow, pointing it at the heart of the terrified blonde staring at him.

“Felicity Smoak,” he intones, the synthesizer attached to his jacket altering his voice to a deeper rasp. Combined with the flawless Russian accent he can now mimic, no one will ever be able to place this as his doing. “You have shamed the Bratva.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian*:  
>  _Rabota zavershena_ : "The job is complete."  
>  _Ochen' khorosho_ : "Very good."  
>  _Da_ : Yes.
> 
> * According to Google Translate. (If you know Russian and want to play translator, send me a message.)
> 
> Few things to note about this story:
> 
> I spent way too long looking into the Russian mob. According to everything I could find, there isn't actually a rank of 'Captain' within the Bratva. The closest I found is ' _avortiyet_ ' aka Brigadier, which was described as 'like' a Captain. Avortiyets each head up their own brigades that consist of boyeviks (warriors) and shestyorkas (newbies), Boyeviks consist of byki (bodyguards), torpedos (contract killer), and kryshas (bodyguards.) Brigadiers report to an Obschak. I am taking a lot of creative license with the way they work, though, so don't expect it to be too realistic.
> 
> Lastly, _selyodka pod shuboi_ is a Russian dish made up of salted herring, potatos, carrots, beets, chopped onions, and mayonnaise. There's sometimes grated apple on it and/or boiled egg. It looks like [this](http://thumbs.dreamstime.com/z/dressed-herring-russian-salad-traditional-salted-beet-selyodka-pod-shuboy-31039837.jpg) It's also known as 'Herring Under a Fur Coat.'
> 
> Come drop a line to me on [tumblr](http://tititilani.tumblr.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing goes according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you are actually getting this chapter a day early, as I intend to update every Tuesday. But considering that I intend to be on the road to Colorado tomorrow, I'm letting you guys have it early. :)
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments, guys! Means a lot.

On the rare occasion she had thought of the way she would die, she had pictured living until her eyes went bad and her hair went gray with family all around her. She would never have imagined staring down the shaft of a wickedly sharp arrow by a masked man in green.

The bowstring is pulled taut by gloved fingers, the tip of the arrow leveled directly at her heart, when the tense moment is immediately disrupted by a phone ringing, the shrill sound thoroughly unnerving. She has the sudden thought that it's her phone that's ringing before realizing it's an unfamiliar ring tone. The sudden twitch of the masked man further confirms it.

Her would-be assassin doesn't move for a long moment and when he does, he slowly lowers the bow. “Don't move,” he warns her in that digitalized, thickly accented voice.

 _Not a problem,_ she thinks to herself. _My legs are jello anyways._ Also more to the point is that she doesn't have anything pointy of her own near her that she can use and her phone is in the other room.

The man pulls the still ringing phone out of an unseen pocket and presses it to his ear. “What.” He somehow manages to make the almost question into a statement and she finds herself almost impressed. He is completely unreadable as he listens to the person on the line and even though the top half of his face is hidden, she can feel the exact moment she becomes the sole focus of his attention again by the hair raising on the back of her neck.

“Have you had anything of yours hacked lately?” It takes her a moment to realize he's addressing her.

“Uh, no,” she answers belatedly. “Oh, wait! I did have a weird thing happen to my email. I thought it was from one of my coworkers because they like to mess with me a lot but I never managed to find the source.”

“Show me,” he orders tersely, and she fights the urge to stick her tongue out at him. Something told her he wouldn't take it very well.

“Sure,” she agrees quickly and pulls the laptop closer to her from where it had been sitting quietly on the desk beside her. Keeping one eye on the deadly looking arrow, which thankfully hadn't been pointed back at her yet, she loads up her work email. Even though she had managed to crack the code that had altered every email in her inbox into the same repeat of the code (which had turned out to be nothing more than exactly what she had thought – gibberish and thoroughly not worth the effort she had put into it), her previous emails hadn't been altered back. She's unbearably grateful for that now. She spins the screen to face him.

He has to stoop to see it and even the light of the screen isn't enough to illuminate the contours of his face under the hood beside the jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He stares at the screen for only a moment or two before straightening and pulling away. “It's not her,” he says, and just like that she has been forgotten once again.

She's pretty sure she hadn't taken a breath until the arrow that had been previously pointed at her is slid back into the quiver.

“Felicity Smoak,” the deep voice begins and her attention immediately snaps back to that darkened face.

“Am I going to die?” She blurts out, interrupting him before he could get more than her name out.

There's the briefest pause and she swears she can feel her heart rate jack up even more in it. “No,” he says finally. “You are not going to die tonight.”

She lets out a breath in a sharp sigh. “I bet that's something you don't say a lot.”

“No, I don't,” he tells her shortly and, oh yeah, assassin. What the hell is a Bratva, anyway?

His posture shifts when she apparently asks this question out loud and if she had to make a bet, she has probably baffled him just like she does with everyone else. “It's the Russian mob,” he tells her and she frowns.

“I've certainly not had anything to do with you,” she declares and he shifts again.

“That's becoming increasingly clear,” he says dryly. “We believe someone used your information to steal from us.”

“What a jerk,” she snorts and tries not to feel offended that they managed to use her as a scapegoat. She mostly fails. A somewhat altered but still clearly male chuckle comes from the masked man surprises her and it settles deep in her bones.

“Agreed,” he says simply before a slightly tinny voice sounds loudly from the phone and he lifts it to his ear and silently listens to the person on the other end. “I have new orders,” he tells her after a few moments.

There's a sinking sensation in her stomach that tells her she's not going to like his new orders. “Oh?”

His voice is flinty and unyielding as if he's preparing for a fight and yeah, she's definitely not going to like this. “I have standing orders to track down the person responsible for taking our money.”

That isn't so bad. “Okay.”

“And you are going to help me.”

“ _What_?” She yelps. “Why would I do that?”

“Because the real thief has used you as a fall guy,” he explains tersely. “And because I will kill you if you don't.”

His uncompromising tone and the way his fingers twitch around the bow let her know that he is completely serious. “Of course you would,” she finally snaps before she can fully reel it in and the man stiffens slightly. “I don't suppose I get a say in this?” She's fully aware that she is basically going toe to to toe with the man who would have, and easily still could, kill her without a shred of remorse but she can't quite bring herself to stop.

The altered voice is hard. “No.”

The last thing she sees is him notching an arrow.

 

* * *

 

Oliver stares down at the unconscious body of his former target, utterly impassive to the admittedly brutal way he had knocked her out. He has it on good authority that his knock out darts left behind a nasty hangover. He'd been told that it was generally preferred to be punched repeatedly in the face than to have been hit with one of the darts. The woman would be waking up feeling as if she had been hit by a car, but she would be alive.

Felicity Smoak may have just been the most perplexing woman he had ever encountered and that was not intended as a compliment. Being intriguing tended to get one killed. She alternated between terrified mouse and confident lion, and it left him feeling as unbalance as he'd ever been in the wake of it.

After a moment's consideration, he moves to pick the blonde up and settle her on the nearby couch. His efforts at trying to make her more comfortable end there and banishing her to the back of his mind for the time being, he redials Ray and make a note to invest in a Bluetooth for easier handling.

Ray picks up on the first ring. “Yo,” he greets. “You knock her out?”

“I need you to see about finding the necessary technology for her to find the thief,” he says by way of a greeting and ignores the question completely. “Also inform Helena of the fact that I will be out of town and indisposed for the time being. Diggle will handle the payments until I get back.” His _obschak_ wouldn't be pleased about his extended absence but seeing as his new orders came from above her, there wasn't much she would be able to do about it.

“No shit?” Ray sounds delighted at the possibility of being able to tell Helena such a thing. “You're not coming back?”

“Not right away, no,” Oliver tells him as he moves towards what he assumes in the woman's bedroom. “I will be returning after I get this mess sorted out.” It would be infinitely easier to find and eliminate the target from this side of the world, if they were here, and if they weren't, then he could easily just send Barry in his stead. Not to mention the fact that it would be significantly easier to deal with his former target from here instead rather than smuggle her back to Russia.

The airline staff employed by the Bratva were paid very well to ignore a lot of things but even he wasn't sure how they would handle seeing him bring an unconscious woman on board.

Ray hums understandingly. “Fair enough. So where do you want this this stuff sent to?”

“I have a house just outside Central City and the address should be stored. Send it there.”

“You got it, boss.” The faint sounds of key clicking stops. “All right, all orders have been passed along to the appropriate people and all the tech will be arriving at your place in a day or two. Anything else I can do for you, o great brigadier?”

“Tell Diggle that if he tries to come here without orders, I'll put an arrow in his throat.”

“Arrow, throat. Got it.” The delight is back in Ray's voice. He's always found joy in chaos and violence despite his sometimes obnoxiously chipper attitude. “He's going to be so pissed.”

Oliver is aware. Diggle takes his job as a _byki_ incredibly seriously, acting as if everything is out to get Oliver. Which, he has to admit, is incredibly likely. There are a lot of people who would be happier if he died, and even more pleased if they were the reason why. “Yes, I know. But I need him there.”

What he didn't say was that Diggle was the only other person who would be able to keep the brigade functioning in his absence. While his brigade was arguably the most efficient in the Bratva, it was also one of the most volatile and was constantly on the edge of a knife and falling into chaos. If left unchecked for an extended period without him around, they could destroy themselves from the inside and that was not something that he could allow to happen.

“I'll let him know,” Ray assures him. “Now, sorry to cut this short, but I have people to threaten and money to collect. You know, shit to do and all. Have fun with my future wife, but not too much fun!” And with that, Ray ends the call, leaving Oliver to shake his head out of thinly veiled irritation.

Pocketing the cell phone, he takes a look around his surroundings and realizes that he's been standing in the woman's bedroom for an extended period of time and done nothing. The woman's bedroom looks like a small tornado had swept through it, with clothes tossed over the computer chair and on the bed. A dresser is half opened and eschewed. He shakes his head. Her bedroom appears as if someone has already ransacked it. At least his job will be easier.

He grabs the first suitcase he sees, a violently pink one that he's half certain he could use as target practice if he needed to practice shooting in the dark. He isn't particularly picky about the clothes he chooses, paying just enough mind to ensure there were equal number of tops versus bottoms, with a few dresses tossed in as an after thought. He doesn't touch any of the technology he sees in the room, leaving the phone quietly charging on the phone and the second laptop on the cluttered desk. He can easily replace anything she might need and he can't be certain that they can't be traced.

Satisfied that he has completed the necessities of packing, he zips up the suitcase and carries it out to the living room. The woman's still unconscious on the couch, not that he's surprised. The knock out darts usually last about eight hours, and it will be more than enough time to get her to his safe house outside Central City and get everything situated. With the abrupt change in plans, he wouldn't be needing his safe house here in Starling anymore, which would be a relief. Just being in this city is making him tense and on edge, bringing up old, unwanted memories of a previous life.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials the number for the local Bratva branch. “ _Mne nuzhen avtomobil',_ ” he says to the other end. “ _I net nikakikh voprosov._ ”

“ _Konechno,_ Mr. Queen,” the serpentine, accented voice says after a moment. “Whatever you ask, you shall have.”

Oliver gives the address of his current location and hangs up, ignoring the faint disdain in the other man's voice when he repeats the instructions. He's well aware that there remains a sizable chunk of the Bratva that hates him and the idea of a foreigner rising so high in their ranks. Fortunately for him, their loyalty outweighs their hatred and they continue to take his orders regardless of their personal desire to stick a knife between his ribs.

This had been one of the most unconventional nights of his life, and it leaves him feeling overly anxious. It wouldn't take long for the Bratva to get here, because despite their hatred of him they are incredible efficient, and he takes the opportunity of spare time to take a few deep breaths and settle his nerves.

Only a few minutes later, there's a quiet knock at the door. Oliver lets in the man on the other side, who surveys his attire and then the room blandly. His gaze lingers on the woman on the couch. “Should I have brought a bag?” He asks mildly.

Considering his reputation within the Bratva and the way the woman is sprawled on the couch, it's a valid question. Oliver shakes his head. “That won't be necessary,” he replies. “She's alive, just unconscious.” He moves toward the couch and kneels to pick the woman up, lifting her easily. “Grab that bag,” he instructs.

“Is that all, sir?” The man asks in that infuriatingly calm voice, picking up the indicated suitcase with only the faintest hint of a grimace.

“Yes,” Oliver says, brushing by him to go out to the waiting car.

 

* * *

 

Felicity comes to in a bed that was most likely made by angels in a room that was distinctly Not Hers.

She stares in bemusement up at the thoroughly unfamiliar ceiling and tries to remember how she came to be here through the pounding in her skull. Her head feels as if someone has driven spikes through. Spikes dipped in salt and _battery acid._

When she finally manages to find it in herself to roll over, there's a glass of water placed considerately on the nightstand along a bottle of tylenol right beside it. She lets out an appreciative moan before lifting up just enough to take the pills and drain the water without choking.

It takes a while longer for her to be feeling well enough to venture out from under her nice warm cocoon but eventually her insatiable curiosity to find out where she is wins out over her still aching head and she slithers out from under the blanket and makes her way towards the door. The room she's in is sparse in furniture with only the bed from heaven and the nightstand but lovely in painting with dark beige walls and white trim and the hallway she exits into is much the same.

Absolutely nothing is familiar to her.

Felicity makes her way down the hallway hesitantly, wishing she could find something to use as a weapon just incase. She enters into a living room that looks as if someone had purchase the cheapest lawn furniture they could find to avoid sitting on the floor. She wasn't finding anything that told her where she was, though. There were faint sounds coming from the kitchen and she followed them, quickly finding the lone other person in the room, who was making something on the stove that smelled absolutely fabulous.

She recognizes those shoulders. Hell, she had daydreamed about those shoulders for hours after they had crashed into her and spilled coffee all over her favorite dress.

“ _Slade?”_

“Would you like something to eat?” He asks over his shoulder, tone lacking the geniality from their previous encounter. In fact, he sounds almost cold and there is a new tension in the lines of his body that she doesn't remember.

She sits at one of the mismatched chair cluttered around the small table and stares at him. “Um, sure,” she says, not knowing what he made but knowing that it smelled fabulous and that she was absolutely ravenous. “What am I doing here, Slade?”

“That's not my name,” he tells her as he hands her a plate of food. “And do you really not remember? That's not a normal side effect of the dart.”

And as though those were the magic words, she suddenly does. The memories slide hard and fast in place and she jumps to her feet to put more distance between her the man. “ _You're_ the Hood?” She asks in disbelief, voice shooting up an octave in shock.

A faint grimace graces his handsome features. “Don't call me that,” he requests. He doesn't seem too bothered by her reaction, however, and begins to eat from his own plate.

“So what do I call you?” She snaps. “Kidnapper? Liar? Murderer?”

“I'd prefer Oliver Queen,” he says calmly. “But any of those would work as well, I guess.”

A nearly hysterical laugh escapes her. “Are you lying about your identity again?” She snorts. “Because it's not a very good one. Oliver Queen is dead. He died five years ago.”

He levels her with an unamused look and a cold shiver races down her spine. “I really am Oliver Queen, and I'm not dead,” he tells her flatly.

He seems completely serious, she realizes, though that didn't exactly mean much considering how easily he had lied about his identity already. She did have to admit that he did look an awful lot like Oliver Queen, if a harder and infinitely more dangerous version of him. She had exactly followed Oliver Queen's exploits as Starling's resident playboy as closely as the tabloids had and she had only the vaguest recollection of him from the frequent headline stamped across the newspapers after his more scandalous exploits but this man did look a lot like Oliver Queen.

“Oh my god, you are him,” she realizes. His expression doesn't change but she earns herself a slight nod. “But you're dead! I mean, you're not dead because you're right in front of me and I'm pretty sure I'm not hallucinating, but how are you here and, you know, not dead?” She finishes lamely, trying to ignore the way his jawline is tensing more the longer she keeps babbling.

“A lot of things happened,” he replies shortly. “And none of it is your concern.”

“Rude, much?” She snorts even as she sits back down. Dead assassin or not, the man could cook and she _was_ starving. And she was reasonably certain it wasn't poisoned as he was eating out of the same pan. The first bite proves to be as delicious as the smell and an appreciative moan leaves her, and it earns her an almost amused look from Oliver. She's not sure how she can tell it's an amused look because his face barely moves, but that's definitely an amused air she's getting from him.

She flushes. “What?”

“I don't frequently have people who enjoy my cooking that much,” is all he says.

“Well, I'm hungry,” she complains. “What time is it anyways?” She hadn't found a clock anywhere on her journey into the kitchen and when she glances outside the window, she's alarmed to see that the sky is tinged pink around the edges.

“It's about five in the morning,” he tells her and gets to his feet to take his plate to the sink. “The bedroom you were in is yours for the time you're here.”  
  
“I'm not staying here!” She protests. “I need to go home! I have work and everything.”

The man – Oliver – shakes his head. “You're not leaving,” he says flatly. “You're going to help me find the thief with our money. Then you can go.”

Felicity sets her jaw. The hair raising on the back of her neck tell her that she's playing with fire by pissing off such a clearly dangerous man. “What makes you even think I can help you?”

He pulls a stack of papers that she hadn't noticed before towards him and reads off of it with a droll voice. “Felicity Smoak, graduated from MIT at the top of your class five years ago. Currently head of Merlyn Industries' IT department, which you got just over three years after being hired, which is nearly unheard. You built your first computer at seven. You have an IQ of-”

“Okay, okay,” she interrupts hastily, not needing the list of her achievements to be rattling off any longer. “So you did your research on me. But that still isn't going to convince me to stay.”

There's only the minutest shift in the lines of his body, but it's enough. Cold blue eyes stare her down, and she suddenly feels like an antelope being stalked by a hungry lion. “I can make you stay, if you want,” he says simply. “But I can guarantee you won't like it.”

“You threaten me a lot,” she mutters, looking away from his impassive stare.

“It's not a threat if I have every intention of going through with it if need be,” he tells her. “Consider it a reminder that you're not a visitor here and I will break your legs if I need to.”

Felicity swallows thickly, suddenly not hungry despite the fact she'd only taken a few bites. “So,” she says hesitantly after a moment. “If I help you catch this guy and do...whatever you need to with him, I can go? Just like that.”

Oliver nods. “I have as little interest in you being here as you do,” he says. “But I need your skills, skills that I don't have access to otherwise.”

“I want your word that you'll let me go,” she says.

He cocks an eyebrow, looking skeptical. “You'll trust the word of a mob boss? Fine, you have my word. No harm will come to you while you're here, and once we've concluded our business, you'll be let go.”

 _Can I get that in writing?_ “Great. Now where's my stuff?”

“Presumably still at your apartment. I left all of your tech there. You luggage is in your closet.”

“Um, hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I can't really help you without my computers,” she points out.

“I'm aware.” His tone's dryer than the desert. “I'm having replacements sent here and they should be arriving within the next day or two.”

“Oh, good,” she replies lamely. “Do I have my phone, at least?” _So I can call for help._

Oliver gives he a look like he's very much aware of her thoughts. “So you can call the police and say a dead man kidnapped you? No, you don't have your phone.”

“Fantastic,” she mutters under her breath, wondering what the chances were that she'd be able to break out of here without him noticing. It didn't seem like he had all that much interest in babysitting her, and maybe there was a window she could wriggle through somewhere.

Apparently deciding the conversation is done, Oliver brushes past her and exits the kitchen. “You can do whatever you like as long as you stay inside. I have video cameras hidden, so you shouldn't try to escape.”

_Well, haven't you just thought of everything._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mne nuzhen avtomobil'._ : "I need a car."  
>  _I net nikakikh voprosov._ : "And no questions asked."  
>  _Konechno._ : "Of course."
> 
> I feel unsatisfied with this chapter, mostly because I think the ending kind of falls apart, but next chapter should be better. See you guys next Tuesday!
> 
> Come party with me on [tumblr.](http://tititilani.tumblr.com/)


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